As any fan of Dick Francis, author and former steeplechase jockey, would know, horse racing is a big thing in the UK. Attending the sport of kings at Ripon Racetrack seemed like the perfect way to spend a Saturday afternoon.
We were separated from the upper-class as soon as we left the carpark. Only men with a collar and tie (and their suitably attired ladies) are permitted into the club section. The rest of us were ushered towards the infield where the entry fee is six pounds and the dress code is "anything goes." Families literally set up camp in the infield grass with tents, tables, chairs, barbeques and booze. Some of the women were decked out in revealing outfits suitable for an appearance on Jerry Springer, their stiletto heels sinking into the soft turf. Whoever said England and the US were two countries separated by a common language had it wrong. There is no "common" language in England. I heard every dialect imaginable except something that sounded like Tony Blair.
There were almost as many bookies as there were bettors, each with his own electronic tote board showing the current odds. You select your favorite or the one with the best odds on your horse and place a bet - one pound for us. The lucky line up after the race to collect their winnings or more likely just chuck their losing tickets into the rubbish bin.
Big spenders, Connie and I bet one pound each per race. She picked a horse she liked with medium odds, 8-1 or 10-1, and I backed one of the favorites as our insurance. We ended up about four pounds to the good. It wasn't quite enough to cover our entrance fee but we had fun.
A young boy said something to me while we were watching the horses move toward the gate. When I answered him his eyes widened in surprise and he exclaimed, "You're an American! Did you come all this way just to see this race?" Kids!
